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Back When I Was Ten Save as PDF
Chapters (79)
  1. Cover
  2. WHEN I WAS TEN
  3. Dedication page
  4. Epigraph page
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. PART ONE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. PART TWO
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. PART THREE
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  78. WHEN I WAS TEN
  79. Also by Fiona Cummins

‘Shall we meet for a coffee sometime this week? It would be good to catch up.’

A salty wash of tears filled her eyes. Eliza Sheen was one of only a handful of people who knew the truth about her horrific past. She had been a part of Catherine’s life for so long now, since it had happened, and she had never judged, not even when Catherine had judged herself.

They agreed a date and time, and talked for a couple of minutes about the weather and the madness of Christmas before ringing off. Banal, but comforting.

When she turned around, Honor was cutting out more shapes, absorbed in her task. Secondary school had rubbed the softness from her, and in the last few months, she had shed the tender skin of childhood to reveal the hardened shell of adolescence. Rudeness. Mood swings and acne. A loss of interest in Guides and piano. Slicking on lip gloss and pouting into the camera. Periods and bras, Snapchat and secrets.

But every now and then, Catherine glimpsed the eight-year-old who had drawn and coloured careful pictures of elephants, or the ten-year-old who still held her hand, or the generous heart of the twelve-year-old who was raising money for a girl on her football team diagnosed with pancreato-blastoma, a rare childhood cancer.

Honor was using a small paring knife to carve holly leaves and bells with the leftover dough, and something about the sight of the blade glinting in the kitchen light, moving between small fingers, made Catherine’s knees loosen.

She steadied herself against the worktop and tried not to think of her sister, but Honor’s blonde hair, the intelligence in her eyes, even the graceful way that she walked, was a living reminder.

The room filled with the scent of heat and spices.

When the biscuits had cooled, Honor decorated three of them with their initials. H for Honor. D for Dad. M for Mum. Such careful lettering. Beautiful. A trio of gingerbread figures lined up in a row, their hands touching like paper dolls.

Her own little family. All Catherine had ever wanted.

But later, when she went to make a cup of tea and put them on a plate, she couldn’t help but notice her own biscuit had cracked in two, an uneven fracture through its heart.

12

The Right Honourable Geoffrey Heathcote could feel his mobile phone vibrating in his pocket. He slid it out and swore under his breath. Eighteen missed calls, several from lobby journalists.

He sank lower into the back seat of his ministerial car and closed his eyes.

As soon as he’d realized the microphone was live, the Justice Secretary knew it was bad. But he would have to wait a few days to find out exactly how bad. If it was a quiet news day, he was in the shit.